


Dancing the Night Away

by Hesadevil



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesadevil/pseuds/Hesadevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle's over and Angel's missing. Spike goes in search of him, and finds out more about an old adversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

  


Dancing the Night Away  
________________________________________________________  


  


_    
_  
**Prologue:  
Dancing Alone**  


  


The sound of music drifted on the chilly night air,  
the melody of _‘Tu scendi dalle stelle’_ rising and falling as the  
musicians wove their way through the crowded market place. The small band  
of Zampognari, wearing traditional criss-crossed leather leggings, short  
bulky trousers buckled below the knee, velvet jackets and peaked caps, disappeared  
into the mist as the last notes of their pipes died away. From the distance,  
a new tune called the two travellers onward towards the heart of the square.

The piazza was alive with movement and noise, the carousel at its centre  
a blur of colour, brass poles glowing beneath a myriad of festive lights.   
Sixty-eight horses whirled in unison, four rows of ‘gallopers’ rising and  
falling to the rhythm of _‘Applesauce’_ belting out from the Wurlitzer.  
Around the perimeter, gaudily decorated stalls creaked beneath jars of  
preserves, pots of poinsettias, bunches of holly, trinkets and sparkling  
baubles. From the food booths came cries of "Il miglior torrone di Roma!"  
and the aromas of spun sugar, roasting nuts, and porcetta.

On the edge of the toy-stall canopy a life-sized puppet of La Befana  
dangled her legs over the side, resting her bare feet on the head of an  
enormous stuffed bear. Children tugged at their parents’ sleeves, pleading  
for another addition to their growing piles of purchases. A market trader  
came out from behind the mountain of chocolate-covered nougat, pressing  
small pieces of confectionery into the children’s hands. He motioned to  
his assistant to guard the takings, studied the two strangers for a second  
from under heavily hooded lids, and approached them cautiously.

The leather-clad male picked a wooden Angel from a stall peddling Nativity  
scenes and examined the gilded halo and hand-painted robes, tracing its  
ornately carved wings with his fingers. “Reckon a pair of these would have  
come in handy with that dragon,” he told the statue, placing it back with  
the other crib figurines. “Not sure ‘bout the dress.”

“Still don’t get why you brought me here to look for him, Blue.” Spike  
called to his companion, shaking his head and waving the approaching street  
vendor away with a glare. “_Or_, how you pulled off the teleportation  
trick if it comes to that,” he muttered, scanning the upper windows of  
the apartment block.

“Someone has interfered in that which belongs to the gods.” Illyria   
turned and strode away from the stall, following the route the musicians   
had taken out of the square.

“And that matters because?” Spike hurried after her, his gaze still   
fixed on the lights emanating from the third floor. “Hang on a minute, does  
this have something to do with…..umph!” he grunted as he collided with  
a pedestrian laden with parcels. “Buffy!”

“Spike? Is that really you?” Buffy dropped her shopping and reached   
out a gloved hand to his face. “Andrew told me. But I didn’t dare believe...”   
She gazed into his eyes, her own filling with tears. “And then _Giles_   
told me what happened in LA.” She gulped, forcing back a sob. “And I couldn’t  
bear the thought I’d lost _both_ of you. And then Ambrogio told me...  
And now _he’s_ gone and...”

“Hey. Slow down, Slayer, you’re making me dizzy with all the telling.”  
Spike caught her arms and steadied her, narrowing his eyes, searching  
over her shoulder for a glimpse of Illyria, then snapping them wide. “Who’s  
Ambrogio?”  
[  
](1%20Dancing%20in%20the%20Moonlight.html)

  


  


  


  


  



	2. Dancing in the Moonlight

 

* * *

  


  


Dancing in the Moonlight

 

  
[](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/1003/hesadevil/spike/projects/Longest-nightk.jpg)

 

banner by Kathyh

 

_____________________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

The  
long-night moon hung high above the mountains, grinning through a gap  
in the scurrying clouds. In the valley below, a river of mist rose  
and surged on the wind-tide, swallowing the tail lights of vehicles  
thundering along the autostrada, drowning the noise from their engines,  
muffling the church bells sounding the Angelus in the village.

 

The motorway crossing, a single-tracked link between the village   
and the Castello five hundred metres above the valley was closed to traffic;  
a hand-written notice giving directions to an alternative route hanging  
limply from the works sign propped against the barrier. Buffy moved  
it to one side and stepped onto the bridge. A thin dusting of snow rose  
in a flurry of glistening crystals as she skidded across its frozen  
surface and landed with a thump against the safety rail.

 

“The Immortal!” Spike exploded for the third time in as many   
minutes. “I knew the bugger had it in for us all along. Never thought   
he’d go this far.”

 

“To the Apennines? They’re not far from Rome. Not as the crow  
flies anyway.” Buffy gripped the iron railing, pulled herself to her  
feet, and dusted the snow from the hem of her coat. “Or eagle, or whatever  
he turned into.”

 

“Wolf.” Illyria pointed at fresh paw-prints in the snow. “This   
one did not fly. He travelled much the same way as you and I.”

 

“Yeah. ‘Bout that,” Spike drawled, staring up at the mountains.  
“What happened to Rome?”

 

“You fear the power that brought you here.” Illyria sounded  
a challenge. “Yet you would go where the wolf is bound.”

 

“Fear the magical teleportation tour?” Spike shrugged. “Not  
half as much as whatever Morty’s up to. Adding Drac’s shape-shiftin’  
tricks to his repertoire? Knew it was thrall all along.”

 

“His _name’s_ Ambrogio.” Buffy hugged her coat tighter,   
thrusting her hands into the warmth of its deep pockets. “And you’re   
wrong. It wasn’t thrall. It was...” she paused, her mouth quivering.

 

 

“Chin up, Pet. We’ll find him.” Spike pulled the woollen hat   
further over her ears and wrapped her scarf around her throat, tucking   
it into the collar of her coat. “Tell me exactly what he said about Angel’s  
whereabouts.”

 

“He said Angel had been sent back home – to Shanshu.” Buffy  
wiped snowflakes from her eyelids. “Dawn looked it up on ‘Googlemaps’  
but she couldn’t find it.” She stopped as a look of shock flashed across  
Spike’s face. “What’s wrong? Shanshu’s not in LA?”

 

“_Not_ LA,” Spike confirmed through gritted teeth. “Besides,  
don’t think Angel thought of anywhere in Sunny California as home.”

 

"Ireland?" Buffy watched Illyria move rapidly into the woods   
towards the sound of wolves. “Does your... " she waved a hand at the   
disappearing figure, "_whatever she is"_ expect us to follow her   
into that on a night like this?”

 

“Longest night of the year,” reflected Spike. “Gonna need all  
the dark hours that brings. Don’t reckon there are any handy sewers  
I can use here once the sun is up.”

 

Dark clouds raced across the sky driven by the strengthening   
wind, covering the moon, blotting out the light then releasing it again.   
Spike linked arms with Buffy and they struggled through the driving snow  
towards the forest. The respite they found there was short-lived; barely  
five paces in, they met Illyria, returning along the track.

 

“A deep gorge lies ahead,” she told them. “We will take the  
easier path to cross it.” Without breaking stride, she lowered her head  
against the oncoming blizzard and headed up the narrowing road.

 

The snow fell faster and thicker, visibility lessening with  
every step. Finally, the sky fell to ground level, creating a whiteout.  
Buffy stopped and silently resisted all Spike’s attempts to move her  
forward.

 

“You just need to rest. There’s a bit of shelter under that  
overhang.” Spike squinted into the wind and began leading the way to  
the foot of the next incline.

 

Buffy sank down into the snow, her back to the rock-face, her  
eyes blank.

 

“Buffy?” Spike crouched beside her. “What’s wrong, love? Time  
was you’d’ve punched me on the nose ages ago for not lettin’ you know  
I was back in the land of the undead.”

 

“_Thought_,” whispered Buffy.

 

“What?” Spike frowned.

 

“Angel never _thought_ California was home.”

 

Spike sighed and joined her on the ground. “And that means...”   
He turned his head towards her.

 

Buffy didn’t respond, her face empty, eyes unresponsive to his   
questioning stare.

 

“We gonna sit here all night ‘til you work your feelings for   
your ex out?” Spike clenched his jaw and rose to his feet. “Or we gonna   
follow Frosty the Ice-Queen and track the missing hero down?” He held out  
his hand to her, shaking his head in frustration as she continued to  
ignore it.

 

“I can’t do this any more,” Buffy said finally. “I thought now   
I’m not ‘_The One_’, I’d have a chance to be...”

 

“Normal?” Spike snapped. “You want normal, you _don’t_  
date the first Immortal that crosses your strada.”

 

“There is a light ahead.” Illyria re-appeared from the whirling  
snowstorm, as Spike pulled Buffy from the icy ground. “The wolf is  
heading that way.” She guided them round the hairpin bend of the narrow  
mountain track.

 

The wind dropped as suddenly as it had risen, the snow stopped   
and the moon reappeared. As they climbed the steep incline past a ruined   
church, the wolf bounded from the forest, disappearing round the corner   
of a wall beside the rear driveway of the three-storey building that towered  
above them.

 

Buffy raised her eyes to the top floor window. Ancient bricks  
herringboned across the glass, diffusing the light from within, forming  
a criss-cross pattern on the snow below.

 

"Pietra Grezza," said Illria.

 

"You say something, Highness?" asked Spike.

 

"This dwelling. It is named La Pietra Grezza." She indicated   
the name plate attached to the wall.

 

"It means 'raw stone'," Buffy murmured. She walked the length  
of the building, searching for an entrance. The lower floors were in  
darkness; the French doors beside where they stood barred and gated  
on the inside. “No doorbell.”

 

“We follow where the wolf leads,” Illyria insisted, turning  
the corner.

 

At the back of the house, they climbed the stone steps in silence,   
pausing at the small walled-terrace on the second level. A generous   
woodpile leaned along one side, beneath the eves of a low outbuilding.   
Beside the logs stood an old stone trough, its pump dangling icicles of   
fine feathery hoarfrost that sparkled in the glare of the security light.   
Beyond the trough, a spiral staircase led them upwards again, to the entrance   
of the topmost part of the house; a heavy oak-panelled door surmounted   
by a leaded light window and sporting a wolf’s head doorknocker. Spike ignored   
it, hammering on the wood with his fist, stopping only when he heard sound   
of bolts being drawn.

 

The door opened, revealing a short, balding man in his late  
fifties. He was dressed as though ready for bed, in a heavy woollen  
dressing gown, striped pyjamas and slippers.

 

“Signorina Summers Benvenuta nella mia casa. ”

“Thank you,” Buffy replied, taking the hand he offered and following   
him inside.

Spike stepped forward and bounced off the invisible barrier  
blocking his entrance. “Hey!” he shouted. “What’s goin’ on? Buffy? Who  
_is_ that?” He craned his neck, trying to glimpse behind the  
half-open door through which Illyria slipped unnoticed.  



	3. Dancing in My Dreams

* * *

  


  


Dancing in My Dreams

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It’s all right,” Buffy called to Spike. “It’s just Alberto.” She   
allowed her host to help her out of her sodden coat and scarf before   
pulling off her boots.

 

“Who the bloody hell’s Alberto?” Spike thundered.

 

Alberto poured Buffy a glass of wine from the open bottle on  
the coffee table, and motioned her to a chair beside the fireplace  
before returning to the doorway. "Signor Sanguinari. Che piacevole sorpresa".  
He bowed slightly to Spike, holding the door wider.

 

“Where _is_ he?” Spike growled. “In English, I know you  
speak it.”

 

“’Ee is not ‘ere.”

 

Spike pursed his lips. “We _saw_ him sneak in the back,  
you git.”

 

“’Ee is not ‘ere,” repeated Alberto, waving his hands indicating  
the room behind. “'Ee does not sneak. I invite you in. You look for  
yourself.”

 

Spike stepped inside, sweeping past the large oak dining table  
that filled half the room, and squinting into the darkened kitchen  
area set off to the right. He scanned his surroundings, noting the evident  
wealth that furnished them; the polished parquet floor and Levantine  
rugs, sumptuous white leather sofa and matching armchairs, the delicate  
china figurines, leather-bound books, and exquisitely cut Italian glass;  
all denoted a sense of elegance and taste absent in the man standing before  
him in old-fashioned nightclothes.

 

“Right. So the Poncy Bugger’s scarpered again, Bertie.” He picked   
a book from the shelf and opened it. “You know where he might be found?”

 

 

Illyria appeared from the corridor leading off from the second  
of two doorways. “He is gone. But I know not where,” she said, surveying   
the room’s contents as she moved towards Buffy. “Nor how.”

 

Buffy sank into the soft leather armchair, resting her head against   
its high back and warming her feet on the tiled hearth. She drained her  
glass and gazed into the embers of the wood fire. “_So_ wrong_."_

 

“That he should dare usurp the power of the gods will not go  
unpunished.”

 

“What?” Buffy spun her head. “Oh, no. Not that.”

 

Illyria lowered herself stiffly onto the second fireside chair.   
“You mourn the diminution of your own power, as I once did mine.”

 

“Not even that,” Buffy replied wearily, taking a log from the   
basket and throwing it onto the glowing embers. She glanced at Spike.   
“The fire went out,” she whispered.

 

Spike looked up from his reading. “Looks all right to me,” he   
said, crossing the room.

 

“I thought if I could escape, dance with someone else – someone,  
_anyone _\- that I’d finally be me. Be Buffy. Be baked.”

 

“Baked?” Spike knelt on the rug and took her hands between his.   
“So that’s where Angel’s cookie-dough ramblings come from.”

 

“He _told _you?” Buffy’s voice rose hopefully.

 

“Not exactly. There was an incident. In Rome.” Spike dropped  
her hands and picked the bellows from the brass box. “Andrew was there.”  
He pumped air under the dying embers, watching the sparks spiraling  
upwards before fading and falling to the hearth.

 

Buffy lay back against the headrest and closed her eyes, the  
warmth of the fire and effects of the wine flushing her face. She dozed  
for a few minutes while Spike coaxed new life into the smouldering wood.

 

“Come on,” he grumbled. “You’re not dead yet.” He re-positioned   
the nose of the bellows, sending short puffs of air beneath the sharpened   
edge of the split log. It flared as the flame caught the seasoned wood,   
sending a flash of light across Buffy’s closed lids.

 

Her eyes shot open and she stared uncertainly at him.

 

“The fire can’t go out love,” he told her quietly. “Not ‘til  
you’re dead.” He stood up and stretched, placing the bellows back in  
the box. “Then you’re baked, finished. _You_ know that.”

 

“Life isn’t bliss?”

 

“Recall telling you once before.” Spike rubbed his hands over   
his jeans, sending the cold ash that covered the front of them back to  
the hearth. “So. Where do we go from here?”

 

“Tonight is the Winter Solstice.” Illyria reached a hand toward   
the fire.

 

“It is.”

 

“A time of great significance for the warriors of Light and Dark.”

 

“If you say so, Highness.”

 

Illyria walked the perimeter of the room inspecting the pictures  
hanging on the walls; each paiting was simply framed and evidently  
by the same artist. “These three show the battle between the Winter  
King of Darkness and Summer King of Light.”

 

“’is best pieces,” Alberto said proudly. “You see the chiaroscuro?  
It come easy to ‘im. But Leonardo, _‘ee_ was so slow to learn the  
making of the light.”

 

“Da Vinci was a pupil?” Spike shook his head, snorting in disbelief.

 

 

“It is not my concern how this fabrication came about, but the  
story they tell,” said Illyria.

 

“Ritual. Dates back to pagan times. Guarantees the rising of  
the new sun if memory serves,” said Spike. “Winter King refuses to  
give up his throne. Big fight ensues. Summer King wins. Yule log burns  
all night and everyone goes home happy with a chunk of charcoal.”

 

“Look closer, vampire.” Illyria pointed to the last of the three  
scenes. In it, the holly-crowned Winter King, stood over the body of  
the fallen Summer King. Behind them, the dying remains of a bonfire guttered  
under a black sky.

 

“Shit!” Spike swallowed hard. “Morty could pull this off if he  
had a mind to. Send the world back to the Dark Times when...”

 

“When such as I once ruled,” Illyria finished.

 

“Why would he?” asked Buffy flatly. “And what does this have  
to do with Angel?” She rose from the armchair and gazed at the picture.

 

“This might tell us something,” Spike said indicating a fourth  
painting, an 18th century hunting scene; a young man crouched over  
the inert body of an adolescent wolf while a red-coated figure, flanked  
by two Irish wolfhounds, watched from the shadows of a massive limestone  
dolmen.

 

Alberto cleared his throat. “’is Eminence was not ‘appy about   
that kill. Since then is no more wolves in the green country. It is making  
‘im need to do the penance.”

 

Spike stared at the hunter and his dogs. “Irish wolfhounds.”  
He screwed his eyes in concentration. “Bloody hell. Don’t tell me _he_   
killed the last Irish wolf.”

 

“And is the only one who is paying with the praying one hundred   
and fifty years...” Alberto sidled towards the exit.

 

“That’s why he locked himself away in a Tibetan Monastery! Bleedin’   
street cred slipped," Spike chortled.

 

“I still don’t understand where Angel fits.” Buffy’s tired voice  
ended Spike’s laughter.

 

“The immortal one seeks to punish you through another,” said  
Illyria blocking Alberto’s passage towards the door.

 

“Goin’ somewhere, Jeeves?” Spike yanked him by the collar of  
his dressing gown and pushed him onto a dining chair. “Might want to  
change into something warmer. It’s parky out there.”

 

“It’s my fault Angel died in LA.” Buffy’s voice was barely a  
whisper.

 

“A _dragon_ killed Angel, not your soddin’ boyfriend.” Spike   
threw Alberto a ‘stay there’ glare and returned to the bookshelf.

 

“He’s not my boyfriend. He broke up with me last night.” Buffy  
took a deep breath. “What did Andrew tell you?”

 

“For starters, there was snuggling.” Spike scowled, skimming  
the book he'd found earlier, flicking pages rapidly as he walked back  
to the dining table. “Didn’t say what the main course was.”

 

“We never got that far,” said Buffy. “That’s _why_ he broke  
up with me. Said he was tired of competing with the two of you.”

 

“That’s it!” Spike jabbed a finger into the page and held it  
up for her to view.

 

“A wolf? That’s it? That’s all you have to say after I just told  
you...”

 

“The last wolf, the Winter King, the hunt. It’s all about The   
Immortal. Recognise the hunter in the red coat? _Angel_.” Spike   
gripped Buffy’s arm. “Shansu’s not a place, love, it’s a _prophecy_.   
Angel died fighting on the side of Light in _'The'_ Apocalypse. He  
gets to be a real boy again. Live a normal, mortal life. Trouble is, he  
seems to be doin’ it in the wrong century." Spike relaxed his grip and pointed  
at the third painting. "_This_. It’s wrong on so many counts. No one  
dies in a ritual. Not for real. But look at the painting. Summer King. Is  
dead. In the _story_, the Winter King loses. ‘Cept in this version,  
The Immortal’s version, he wins.”

 

“What does he win?”

 

“You’re asking the wrong question, love. It’s not what’s won  
that matters, it’s what's lost.” Spike twisted the book and showed her  
the text facing the picture.

 

“_Samhain is past. Hearts’ desires are cast. Saturn’s time  
is come at last, and darkness holds mere mortals fast_,” Buffy read  
aloud.

 

“Summer is lost,” said Illyria.

 

“He can’t have me, so he’s planning to kill the light - in me?”   
Buffy asked.

 

“The Immortal hates to lose. Never has to my knowledge. So yeah   
– he’s finally going to _kill__  Angel."  _Spike  
took the book from her and placed it on the table. He reached out an arm  
and dragged Alberto to his feet. “And _you're_ going to show us where  
your precious Eminence has gone.”

“’Ee is not ‘ere,” Alberto whimpered. “I am the keeper of ‘is   
Logia, for the hunting. I know nothing.”

“Don’t force me to torture you now, Bert.” Spike slipped into   
gameface. “Got over a century’s worth of revenge needs working through.   
I doubt you’d stand up to it.”

“There is no need,” said Illyria, opening the door. “The wolf   
crossed behind the terrace to the building beyond the outer wall.”

“And you didn’t mention this before because...” Buffy asked scathingly,   
pulling on her boots.

“We were not in possession of the knowledge we now have.” Illyria   
stalked down the staircase, crossed the small patio behind the lower   
terrace, and moved swiftly towards the long low outline of another dwelling.

“Old stones.” She ran her hands over a section of wall. “Brought  
from further down the valley. Part of a mighty palace there, such as  
one in which I once dwelt.”

“Feeling homesick, Blue?” Spike struck a match on the stonework,  
the light flaring briefly in the thick darkness inside the ancient  
walls. “Maybe you should sit this trip out. Keep old Bert company. He’s  
got satellite.”

“I, alone, will fathom the mystery of the portal that resides   
beneath this roof.” She fixed him with an icy stare.

“You think?” asked Buffy, flicking on the torch she carried and   
shining it on the wolf’s head carved into the stone lintel of the inner   
doorway. “’_Follow where the wolf leads_’. Here?” she asked Spike.

He nodded. “So, Illyria. What’s your heart’s desire? Truckload  
of worshipful subjects? World trembling before your feet. All the Ben  
and Jerry’s you can eat while treadin’ the Dark Side?”

"The Dark Side?" Ilyyria tilted her head questioningly.

Buffy smiled at him and stepped into the doorway. "Samhain is   
past.  
Hearts’ desires are cast. Saturn’s time is come at last, and  
darkness holds mere mortals fast,” she chanted.

“And they said _my _poetry was bloody awful,” Spike chuckled   
as the world tipped and the moon turned black.  
   



	4. Dancing in the Dark

Dancing in the Dark  
________________________________________________________

 

[  
](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/1003/hesadevil/spike/projects/Castleadjusted.png?t=1166544811)  
Banner by kathyh  

Damp lay on the branches and sparse grass, droplets strung from   
twig to twig and blade to blade, like a coarse spider's' web. On every   
stone and rock of the foreshore, wet lay, clammy, clinging and chill. Across  
the bay, a lone Galway hooker turned slowly on its bows, straining against  
the anchor chain with each surge of the tide. At the shore's edge, above  
the high water mark with its mounds of seaweed and piles of driftwood,  
a squat, square castle turret rose in the darkness, a silhouette against  
the moonlit ocean. The walls must have taken a constant pounding from wind  
and wave for centuries, but still appeared whole. Beside it, flanking  
the rough roadway that ran along the water's edge, was a massive stone  
portal tomb. A light flared briefly at its entrance.

Spike inhaled deeply on a freshly lit cigarette, shivered, and  
pulled his coat closer, watching the darkness gathering on the distant  
horizon speeding across the ocean towards the dolmen, devouring the moonlight   
as it came. "This is all _your_ fault," he called to Illyria. “You   
_and_ the Immortal and your soddin' hearts’ desires.”

Illyria paused in her fingering of the rock's surface and turned  
her glacial stare on Spike. "This place. It reveres the Old Gods still.  
I hear them in the whispering of the stones and the sound of the sea. This  
is a place in which I could..."

“Set rollback to '_everlasting darkness'_?” Spike interrupted.

"I wish to know more of those that dwell here and of the heart’s  
desire that is hallowed. Nothing more."

"Yeah. And leopards change their spots for stripes all the time,"   
Spike snorted.

“Breaking the heel on a brand new pair of Pradas on a stupid rock's   
not _my_ idea of heart’s desire.” Buffy’s complaint wafted   
towards them through the swirling mist.

“Why do I always get stuck with women who believe it’s all about  
them all the time?” Spike muttered through gritted teeth.

The sound of off-key singing drifted across the headland and they   
left the shelter of the rocks and made their way towards the noise. The   
lyrics became clearer as they neared a farmhouse set back from the roadway.

“_For Reilly played on the big brass drum  
Reilly had a mind for murder and slaughter,  
Reilly had a bright red glittering eye,  
And he kept an eye on his lovely daughter_.”

They peered in through the open stable doorway at the far end of  
a small cottage to witness a man dressed in a red frock coat and tan-coloured  
breeches struggling to pull off his riding boots. He leaned for support  
against the wooden frame of one of the stalls and continued his raucous  
rendition.

“_Giddy I Ay, Giddy I Ay,  
Giddy I Ay for the one eyed Reilly.  
Giddy I Ay._"

Bang, bang, bang. He stomped his booted-foot rapidly in the rhythm,   
lost his balance and tumbled into the hay. "_Play it on your big brass   
drum_,” he finished, guffawing loudly and rolling out of reach of the  
hunter's rear hooves.

“Liam – is that you?” a voice called from inside the main part  
of the dwelling.

“Now who else would it be, Fayther, comin’ home at such a time?”

“I’m surprised you have the nerve to show your face at all in this  
house today, having missed church this morning.”

“Church!” The sneer in Liam’s voice was audible. “What need do  
I have of any of that?”

“Your absence was noted,” replied his father. “The whole community  
starin’ at me. Me with no son at me side to lead the procession. I’m  
ashamed to call you me son. You’re a disgrace to the name of Reilly. ‘Tis  
thanks to you we’ve lost this place and are forced to move into the town.”

A middle-aged gentleman appeared through the connecting doorway   
that led into the living quarters, carrying a candlestick in one hand and  
a shillelagh in the other.

“Drinkin’ and whorin'. I smell the stink of it on you. Out huntin’  
all hours with that young Bowsie from across the water. You’ll roast  
in Hell, boy. A layabout and a scoundrel is what y’are. You’ll never amount  
to anything more than that.” He picked the discarded boot from the floor  
and flung it onto the driveway. “Now get out. And don’t come back until  
you’re sober!”

Liam stumbled out of the door and lurched up the driveway, colliding  
with a row of large hollowed-out vegetables lining the edges of the  
track, their candles lighting the way along the shore road. “Who the  
hell left those things there?” he stormed hopping on one leg and beating  
the bottom of his smouldering breeches. “And what sort of eejit grew  
these turnips?”

“Angel?” Buffy asked incredulously, her eyes widening at the sight  
of him slumping against the gatepost. “Way to go with the Adam Ant look.  
And – phew," she wrinkled her nose. “What _is __that?"_

“Lack of drains?” Spike smirked at the prostrate man at his feet.   
“Oh how the mighty are fallen.”

Liam lifted his head and stared at the three strange images that  
swam into view. “Jaysus, Mary, and Holy St Joseph,” he yelled, trying  
unsuccessfully to focus on Illyria. “Demons!” He scrambled to his feet,  
searching for a weapon at his belt.

“No,” replied Spike. Well technically yes, in my case but they’re   
not . . . Sod it.” He waved a hand in Illyria’s direction. “Liam – Illyria,   
former God King of the Primordium. And this is Buffy.” He turned to her.   
“Slayer, meet the man who made Angel the vampire he once was.”

“Vampire? And fallen angels?” Liam looked round wildly.

“Maybe your Da’ had a point after all, Sunny Jim. Should’ve gone  
to church with the rest of the Reilly tribe.”

“Him. He’s full o’ the pissogue, that fella.” Liam’s bravado returned   
with the venom he felt for his father. He squinted at Buffy and slowly   
looked her up and down. “My but you’re a pretty wee thing aren’t ya’?”   
He reached out to touch her. “Bit scrawny for my likin’. I like a bit more   
to grab onto,” he leered, cupping his hands and grinning at Spike.

Spike shoved him angrily back to the floor. “Lay off!”

“No need to get huffy. I was only lookin’. _You’re_ welcome  
to her.”

“’S not what you said last May,” Spike muttered through clenched   
teeth.

Buffy stared at Liam. “You’re disgusting!”

Liam staggered to his feet and roared with laughter, falling against  
her and belching loudly in her face.

“And you’re drunk - and my god what _is_ that smell?” Buffy  
repeated.

“That’d be the Widda Donnelly’s finest poteen,” replied Liam.”

“An’ seein’ as I’m not nearly drunk as I’d like to be an’ the Aul’ One’s  
just barred me from me own home, I’ll be off to the lightin’ of the Yule  
fire and to keep warm by joinin’ in the dance.”

  



	5. Dance of Death

* * *

  


  
Dance of Death  
________________________________________________________

  


[  
](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/1003/hesadevil/spike/projects/Spike-dolmenadjusted.jpg)  
Banner by [  
](http://kathyh.livejournal.com/profile)[**kathyh**](http://kathyh.livejournal.com/)  


  
 

They followed Liam past bushes hung with candles lighting the way   
back to the dolmen. Beside the driftwood bonfire, local musicians gathered  
around one of the fallen stones, talking quietly to a group of Zampognari,  
one of whom hid his face beneath a wolf's mask. He sat on a makeshift  
throne, his head crowned with holly, his right hand resting on a scabbard,  
his left holding a branch of mistletoe.

A woman dressed in green, with a garland of oak across her breast,  
stepped forward from the group. “_Oak King, Lord of the Greenwood,  
come to this circle to meet your challenge. You who shine your light  
throughout our lands and bring life to the Lady's forests and fields!  
Come, my husband of Summer, be with us now_.”

The crowd hustled a protesting Liam towards the throne, thrusting   
a sword into his hand, and placing a crown of oak leaves on his head.   
Liam grinned at his audience. “_I raise my sword in challenge, Lord of  
the Holly,” he hiccuped. “I claim the right to ascend the throne. Will you  
meet me in battle_?"

“_I raise my sword in answer to your challenge, Lord of the Oak.  
I fight to keep the throne_!” The Holly King removed his mask and  
strode into the centre of seven Zampognari forming a circle behind the  
dolmen.

"Ambrogio," Buffy gasped.

“Now _there’s_ a surprise,” Spike sneered.

Liam staggered into the ring and waited for the Immortal to begin   
the ritual.

“Angel hates dancing,” Buffy hissed. "Plus. He's drunk."

“That’s not Angel. Not yet,” Spike replied.

"And never shall be, if all unfolds as the painting foretold."  
Illyria moved back into the shadow of the stone portal and watched the  
approaching darkness consume the flickering candlelight along the sea  
road.

Without warning, six of the dancers began to move, slowly at first,   
their staffs echoing across the silence as they clashed and crossed one  
another. The seventh man leaped and spun, ducking and weaving through   
the dance without missing a beat.

The remaining Zampognari barred the villagers from entering the   
circle, pushing them back towards the standing stones. The two ‘kings’   
raised their swords, while the dancers twirled and stamped around them,   
marking time with feet and sticks.

"Where's the music?" Buffy asked, glancing at the musicians whose   
instruments lay untouched on the ground.

"This is the Dark Dance." Illyria's disembodied voice floated through   
the gloom. "The dance of the Winter King."

Spike stepped under the capstone and faced her. "Look. I don't  
know how you got your powers back, but even you can't want Angel dead…  
deader..." He shook his head in frustration. "Think about it. If Liam  
died before Darla got to him, there'd be no Drusilla and I'd be mouldering  
in a grave somewhere, prob'ly Highgate or somewhere just as naff. Buffy  
would've copped it fighting her first or second vampire. And _you_.  
You'd still be stuck in the Deeper Well."

"This I already know." Illyria's gaze never wavered. "What is it  
you would have me do?"

"What you do best." Spike glanced at the dancers. "Survive.”

"_The Earth is wrapped in stillness and we move in a trance,  
but we hold on fast to our faith in the dance_." A figure moved towards  
the bonfire, a flaming torch held high. "_Who will light the sacred fire,   
bringing back our hearts' desire? Sacred fire, kindled bright, lead us   
back into the light_."

"_I am the cold that chills the bone and wraps the seed tight   
in the dark earth_." Ambrogio thrust the tip of his sword towards Liam's  
throat.

"_I am the warmth on your face and the grain in the fields_."  
Liam parried.

"_Let the flame of Yule flare forth this night through the darkness.  
Deep to all wayfarers and folk of Earth_." The torchbearer touched  
the flame to the kindling. "_As a beacon its brightness burns. As a  
blessing it blazes forth. I light this flame to welcome Yule_."

Illyria tilted her head, watching in fascination as the fire caught,  
flared for a second, then guttered and subsided as the darkness smothered  
it.

Liam brought the hilt of his sword high over Ambrogio's head, feinting  
a killing blow. "_I have slain my brother_..."

Ambrogio cut the short the words that would end the ritual, swinging  
his blade upwards, slicing through Liam's waistcoat and shirt, plunging  
the tip of the sword into his throat. Liam dropped his weapon and fell  
to his knees, blood spurting from the wound in his kneck.

“Illyria! Now!” yelled Spike, sprinting to Liam's side.

It was too late. Liam lay on the frozen earth, unmoving.”

_______________________________________________________________________

 

  
**Words used in the ritual** adapted from from the [Wiccan Pagan Times](http://www.twpt.com/yasmidsummer.htm) and poetry found on [Aine Minogue](http://www.minogue.com/poetry/)

  


  


  
  


  



	6. Dance into the Light

* * *

  


  
**  
**Dance into the Light.  
________________________________________________________

  


  
“No!” Buffy covered her mouth in horror and ran towards Spike.

Illyria marched into the circle and waved a hand over Liam's prostrate  
body. The air around Buffy and Spike shimmered as she wrapped them within  
the confines of a force field. Outside its walls, time froze.

“Are you ready?” Spike handed Buffy Liam's sword.

She gazed at the blade, doubt flashing across her face.

“You can _do_ this, Slayer.”

Buffy glanced at the smouldering fire. “The fire can’t go out.”

“That’s right, love, it can’t.”

Spike ripped Ambrogio’s sword from his hand and nodded to Illyria. Time   
wound back to the point where the two kings faced one another. Spike snatched   
the oak crown from the Immortal’s head, and tossed it to Buffy. He scooped   
the fallen holly crown with the tip of his blade and stood waiting in the   
center of the ring. “It _won’t_. If you dance - with me.”

“I thought we came to fight.” Buffy moved towards him, her sword raised   
in salute, the weapon inches from her face, the hilt pointing at the ground,  
the tip towards the sky.

“Dancing. Fighting.” Spike returned her salute. “It’s who we are.”

They took their places; the other dancers pointed their staffs at them,   
ringing them in as they resumed their silent dance, sweeping Liam and Ambrogio   
into its intricate pattern.

As they fought, Buffy and Spike moved in harmony to the silent rhythm,  
the langourous cadence of the dance directing them in graceful sweeps,  
mirroring one another in the midst of the whirling maelstrom of the other  
dancers. They danced closer, changing pace, following the beat of Buffy’s  
blood pulsing through her veins, a beat as deep as the ocean, as powerful  
and unstoppable as the tide, the heat from her body wafting her familiar  
scent, filling the night air with winter jasmine. They fended off the other  
dancers with outstretched hands; blades swooping, carving through the darkness,  
long arcs slicing the moonlight as they twirled; shaping the story with  
their weapons, etching archaic patterns in slivers of silver in the sky.  
Slow stride matched slow stride, block and slash, cross and thrust, each  
stopping on its mark, perfectly controlled.

A musician took up the bodhrán and sounded an accompanying pattern,  
the Uilleann piper joining him, taking his lead from the energy generated   
by the dueling couple. The fire blazed into life, lighting the sky with   
a rosy glow, driving back the dark.

“I could dance like this all night,” Buffy shouted.

“That’s what we’ll do then,” replied Spike. “We’ll dance the night away.”

He shifted his weight to the balls of the feet and lifted the sword hilt,   
his elbow curved defensively outwards. Holding the blade parallel to the  
ground and crossing his left foot behind his right, he turned, pivoting  
on heel and toe; the upswept blade scythed down and round in a sweeping  
arc, following the course his body took as he spun.

The other dancers threw down their staffs and watched as the battle of  
the Holly King and Oak King moved towards its climax.

Buffy blocked the thrust, deflecting Spike's sword with her own, forcing   
him back against the standing stone. Their swords clashed, blade edge to  
blade edge, their bodies close together, upstretched arms touching. She  
lifted her face to his and kissed him, drawing him closer still.

“Welcome back Summers,” said Spike huskily, breaking the kiss. “Now do  
it.”

"_I have slain my brother! Rekindled is The Fire's spark_,” cried  
Buffy, striking the felling blow. "_The Oak is King of the Forest once  
again_!"

"_The Winter King is vanquished. All hail the Summer_." The Summer   
Queen stepped forward and took Liam’s arm. “Come, my Lord Summer. Lead us   
to the feast.”

Spike dropped to his knees in the shadow of the stones, as the new day's   
light glowed on the horizon. Buffy held her sword high, saluting the sun   
in triumph, the first rays catching her hair, blazing in a golden halo around   
her head.

As he watched her greet the sunrise, The Immortal spoke briefly to the  
leader of the Zampognari, handed him a heavy purse and directed the troupe  
into the portal.

“You do not return with them?” asked Illyria.

“Rome holds no more delights for me. Just as this world no longer does  
for you.” Ambrogio stared into the icy depths of her eyes. “But there _is_  
a place for us,” he said enigmatically, stepping towards Buffy.

“My work here is done,” he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “Take  
care, cara mia.”

From the shadow of the dolmen, Spike growled a warning. "She's not your   
cara anything."

“A truce," said The Immortal handing him a twig of mistletoe. "One favoured  
by the Immortals to whom I must return." He turned to Illyria. “Old One,  
you would be honoured among us should you chose to accompany me there.”

She nodded her assent, taking her place by his side beneath the portal.

“And Angel?” Buffy asked, as she watched Liam carousing with his friends.

“He lives.” Ambrogio stretched out an arm into the portal’s depths and  
grasped a delicate female hand. “Though not for long in _this_ time.”

He smiled at the woman who emerged from the dark. “_There_, beloved,  
you will find one worthy of your ministrations. Go now, we shall meet again  
‘ere long.”

“Darla,” Spike chuckled quietly to himself and watched her follow Liam  
and his friends celebrating in the light of the Yule fire. “The wheel turns  
full circle.” He pocketed the sprig of mistletoe and stepped into the portal.  
“You comin’?” he called to Buffy.”

“Where to?” she asked, following him.

“Good point.” Spike murmured. “Hope this thing’s set to autopilot.”

[Epilogue](6%20Dancing%20to%20the%20Rhythm.html)  
________________________________________

  
**Acknowledgements**

**Inspiration for The Dark Dance** – from Terry Pratchett’s  
[Wintersmith](http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wintersmith-Terry-Pratchett/dp/0385609841).

**Words used in the ritual** adapted from from the [Wiccan Pagan Times](http://www.twpt.com/yasmidsummer.htm) and poetry found on [Aine Minogue](http://www.minogue.com/poetry/)

  


  


  


  


  


  



	7. Epilogue: Dancing to the Rhythm

  
  
  
  
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“How did we get back - _here_?”

 

“Blue must’ve ordered two return tickets,” Spike quipped, throwing his   
duster over the back of the sofa and surveying the room. A small Christmas   
tree stood in one corner, it's lights cycling through red white and blue,   
paper garlands criss-crossed the ceiling, glitter covered the lampshades,   
and the marble figurines on the side-tables were buried beneath mounds of  
tinsel. “You decorated.”

 

“Dawn’s idea.” Buffy checked her watch. “She’s probably over at Nadia’s.   
They were planning to hit the Mall early. Last minute shopping.” She took   
a step towards him. “Spike, I...”

 

The phone on the desk started to ring. Buffy picked up the handset and   
pressed the ‘loudspeaker’ switch.

 

“Buffy Summers."

 

“Buffy. At last. I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Or night rather,   
where you are.”

 

“Giles. I just got in. I….”

 

“You’ve been out dancing. All night. Yes. I know. Dawn was most forthcoming   
on the matter,” Giles interrupted. “And I have to say, I’d hoped that by  
now you would have outgrown this desire for...”

 

“Giles!” Buffy snapped. “Enough of the lecturing. What’s so important  
you couldn’t ask Dawn to take a message?”

 

The sound of Giles clearing his throat rumbled through the loudspeaker.  
“I thought you’d better to hear this from me first.”

 

Spike perched on the edge of an armchair and watched Buffy’s expression  
harden.

 

“It’s about Angel, isn’t it?” The handset trembled in her hand. “Is  
he...”

 

“He’s fine,” Giles reassured her. “But Buffy, you have to know, he’s   
not the same as he was. He’s...”

 

“He’s human.” Buffy glanced at Spike. He averted his eyes and stared   
blankly at the floor.

 

“How on earth did you know?” Giles asked incredulously.

 

“Long story. Giles, where is he?”

 

“Um. I have the number right here...” There was a sound of rustling  
paper followed by the clatter of the receiver hitting something hard.  
"Yes, I have it now. He's just outside Los Angeles, staying with someone  
called _'Connor Reilly'_. Some connection with the old country no  
doubt."

 

Buffy scribbled the phone number Giles gave her on the memo pad. "Thank  
you," she said numbly, replacing the handset in its cradle.

 

“’spect you’ll be wantin’ an early flight to LA then?” Spike studied   
a wine stain on the carpet.

 

“You really _are_ a dope.” Buffy yanked him to his feet. "After   
what happened tonight, you think..."

 

Spike drew back, grabbed his coat and strode angrily towards the door.

 

"Where are you going?"

 

"This the part where you tell me you couldn't have done it without me  
and then run off to Tall Dark and Bog-trotting?" Spike kept hold of the  
handle, his back towards her. "Not goin' there. Not again."

 

"No. This is the part where I tell you I couldn't have done it without   
Ambrogio."

 

Spike half-turned to look at her.

 

Buffy bent down and picked up the twig of mistletoe that had fallen  
from the duster's pocket and twirled it in her fingers. "If it hadn't been  
for what he did," she said softly. "I'd never have realised what I _really_   
needed."

 

"And what might that be?" Spike's features softened and he relaxed his   
grip on the door-handle.

 

She crossed the room and held out the mistletoe. "Not '_normal_'.   
Not '_human_.' " She lifted her eyes to his. "I'm still the Slayer.   
I need a little monster in my man."

 

Spike took the sprig from her. "The Immortal gave me this for a truce,"  
he said, holding it above their heads. "It's not the only thing it's for."

 

There was no anger evident in the gentle kiss he gave her; none of the   
frustration that had made him head for the door. But for all it’s softness,   
something sparked between them as their lips lazily tasted each other and   
Buffy breathed him in like he was all she needed to live. His tongue slid   
between her lips and sought hers, tying a lover’s knot to bind them together.   
As the mistletoe slipped from his fingers, he held her closer, and they   
swayed to the silent rhythm of the fire dancing in her veins.

 

______________________________________________________________

 

 

**Acknowledgements:**

 

**Chapter Titles.**

 

**Prologue**  
: Dancing Alone (Ashlee Simpson)

**Chapter 1**:  
Dancing in the Moonlight (Thin Lizzy)

**Chapter 2**:  
Dancing in my Dreams (Tina Turner)

**Chapter 3**:  
Dancing in the Dark (Bruce Springstee)

**Chapter 4**:  
Dance of Death (Iron Maiden)

**Chapter 5**:  
Dance into the Light (Phil Collins)

**Epilogue**  
: Dancing to the Rhythm (Stevie Wonder)

 

**Special thanks**:  
to **bogwitch** who came to my rescue and without whom the story never  
would have ‘_ended with a kiss_’.

: to **bendy1**  
who made a winter banner for this LJ  
little realising how fitting the text would be for this epilogue.

   
  
---|---


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